


Catastrophic Somersaulting

by Captain_Panda



Series: Growing Pains [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Gen, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Jarvis (Iron Man movies) is a Good Bro, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Relationship, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23703424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Left unsupervised, Tony Stark can andwillbreak one and/or both legs.Then supervision arrives, and Steve ain't happy, but at least he's supposedly here to help.Set 3-4 days after the Chitauri battle.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Growing Pains [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707091
Comments: 24
Kudos: 182





	Catastrophic Somersaulting

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna run out of prewritten works eventually—but today is not that day! Look, I've been busy behind the scenes, y'all want something? I'm *actually* working on something whumpy, and then I have to take care of my firstborn (OMA), but I'm open to requests, if you ask nicely. <3
> 
> Yours,  
> Cap'n Panda

One moment, everything was fine: the second Mark VII was apparently a-go, floating on a bed of warm air. The next, Tony tumble-weeded spectacularly into a wall.

Normally, that was fine and well and good, and he wouldn’t have made any sort of fuss about it. He’d done it so many times he even had a _name_ for it: catastrophic somersaulting. Give the boots a little too much kick, and suddenly, he wouldn’t launch upwards but violently _frontwards_ , pitching forward end-over-end until he crashed into the nearest wall at a velocity that ranged from limp-handed-pitcher to full-bore locomotive. Insofar, he had yet to break anything, which admittedly reduced the impact of the nickname _catastrophic_.

As he thunked into solid steel at twenty-seven miles an hour, he conceded in a breathless wheeze that it might be a good name, after all. Letting himself slide gracelessly to the floor, still upside-down, he allowed himself a moment to recover, reassured that he was still in one piece. Head spinning slowly, he could imagine a clutch of cuckoo birds chasing themselves around it like a classic cartoon character, righting himself slowly.

Thusly, he didn’t even _register_ the difference between the hit and the dozen others like it as he settled on his side, spacing metal hands against the concrete. Duly encased in metal, his chest and back felt fine—his arms were similarly padded, and his legs, though shaky from the sudden kick and spin, were firmly enmeshed, too. Safe and sound as a man wrapped in bubble wrap, he thought, slowly shifting to get his feet underneath him.

Ever-courteous, J.A.R.V.I.S. chimed in: “Are you all right, sir?”

Instinctively, he grunted, “Peachy keen.” He pawed his way towards the wall, one hand on it, the other on the ground, and planted his left foot firmly in front of him. 

Pain lanced, red-hot and shockingly fast, from ankle to knee, like a sword driven diagonally through it. He crumpled forward with a barked cry, like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. Huddling forward, bewildered by the pain, he found himself struck dumb by the sight of jagged metal protruding at a sharp vertical angle—exactly like a sword driven diagonally into his calf, he congratulated himself dimly.

The bulky plate covering his shin had snapped off at the base, but instead of falling away and clattering harmlessly to the floor like it was supposed to, it had chosen to embed itself northward, lodging itself into the nearest stable muscle group. He stared, dazed, appalled, at the hunk of metal sticking out of his leg, reaching for it briefly before, pointedly, lowering his hand back to the ground.

J.A.R.V.I.S. confirmed the improbable: “Sir, I am detecting a traumatic injury in the left leg.”

Heart pulsing in his ears, Tony replied in a surprisingly normal tone, “Really? Hadn't noticed.” He managed to leverage himself to his feet, careful not to put weight on his left leg, one hand on the wall for balance. Good. Good. He took one limping step forward on his right foot, careful to keep the pressure nearly nonexistent on his left leg. The suit compensated surprisingly well, helping him balance on his right leg. Good. That was good. 

Shuffling over to the nearest lab bench, he collapsed into a chair. Prying off his helmet, he chucked it aside carelessly, letting out a huffy breath. Smoothing a metal hand over sweat-damp hair, he asked J.A.R.V.I.S., “Tell me, what gave it away?” He shimmied out of the suit angrily, almost carelessly, annoyed at it for betraying him, for _wounding_ him, because now he would have to _fix it_ , and that was inconvenient. The torso plating thunked to the floor like an oversized jersey, but the legs were troublesome, and he had to fiddle to get them free, unbelting the hip plate first before zeroing in on the right boot, making quick work of it. “Was it the metal embedded in my leg, or the metal embedded in my leg?”

“The what embedded in the what-now?”

Freezing, one hand resting on the meaty thigh plate on his left leg, Tony swiveled slowly in his chair to face Dr. Bruce Banner, distinguished owner of seven Ph.D.s, not one of them in medicine. “Bruce,” he greeted cheerfully, attempting—not well—to conceal the metal plate sticking out of his left leg by crossing his right leg over it, careful not to touch it at all. “What are you doing here? I thought you were—”

“Oh my God?” Bruce interjected, soft and dismayed. He had a manner of speaking that made even the most obvious statements sound like a question.

Undeterred, Tony shrugged and breezed on, “Happens all the time. All the time.”

“This is the first time I have detected a traumatic injury of this nature during a flight test, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. contributed helpfully.

“Tony, we need to go to the hospital?” Bruce said, dropping a bag of chips like he had simply forgotten how to hold them, crossing the floor like Tony would bleed out if he didn't exert the greatest haste.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tony nearly overbalanced, grasping the table for support, putting out a hand to halt him from getting closer than arm's length. “All right, maybe I could go for a glass of wine,” he drawled, “but nothing in a box, Bruce, I’m begging you.”

“Tony?” Wringing his hands, Bruce closed the distance and both of them on Tony’s shoulders, imploring a second, “Tony?”

Tony felt a shudder work its way down his spine, the weight of reality threatening to turn the nausea in his stomach into a real problem, his heart thudding painfully hard, the shock of tender hot pain around the impact site unavoidable in the blue-white light of day. “What even— _how?_ ”

And then, because his life was simply awful, the unlocked door to the lab slid open, and in stepped Steve fucking _Rogers_ , looking like he had single-handedly swept the entire city clean of Chitauri-induced deconstruction dust, scowling thunderously. Almost comically chalked over, he clipped out with audible peevishness, “Couldn't answer a phone? Fury’s been looking for y—what happened?”

Startlingly blue eyes affixed on them with disconcerting intensity. Bruce stepped back, not quite cowering but not _not_ as Rogers promptly crossed the floor, looming over both of them and growling, “Dr. Banner, I'm not gonna say this twice, get a _first aid kit_ , can’t you see the man’s bleeding?”

He felt simultaneously like a fox caught in a bear trap and a wounded civilian as Rogers knelt, no, _hauled_ him out of his chair, narrating very belatedly, Tony wanted the record to show, it was _after_ he was flailing to shove the bastard off him: “Here, you wanna get your heart below the wound, staunch the flow, bleeding everywhere, when did this even _happen?_ "

Gripping the chalk-white suit in a fist, Tony started, “Um.” He wasn’t sure he _liked_ being the subject of Captain America’s Certified Field Aid, even though he could admit that resistance was pretty futile: his pulse was noisy in his leg, loud and blood red, and the dizziness was fast approaching intolerable levels. At least the thigh under his head was—wait a minute, _the what_ under the _what-now_?

“Oughtta get a _real_ doc to take a look at it,” Rogers was grumbling above him. Tony could feel the vibration of his voice through his leg. “I leave you alone for six hours, Stark,” he added, his voice slightly disconnected from reality, amusement or exasperation—maybe both—plain in his tone. “Some of us are on the clock—Banner? Where’re we at with that kit?” Rogers wasn’t waiting, already busy unzipping at his own uniform, getting at the white undershirt below, adding apologetically, “I know, probably a smelly bastard, but at least I’m not covered in slime or anything."

He shucked off his shirt and barely paused to fold it before pressing it against the side of the metal shard, right up against the hot red tender bolt of pain, and _that_ finally woke a yell in Tony’s chest. He lurched even as a firm arm settled over his chest, holding him in place. “Easy," Rogers grunted. "I know, I got it. You’re all right.”

Breath shallowing, the pulsing pain in his leg thudding loudly in his head, he felt suddenly overwhelmed at his decidedly unstrategic position, pinned underneath a goddamn _super-soldier_ , with the literal Hulk rummaging around his lab in his Dr. Jekyll form. 

Scrambling like a fish on a line, frantic to get loose, by any means necessary, he expected Rogers to ignore him, chastise him, even, but something about the way he struggled, or maybe the noises he made—and he would never ask J.A.R.V.I.S. to play back the video or he may have died of shame, at the desperate animal cries, barely words, just one request embedded in the struggle, _don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me_ —but Rogers let him go. Rogers let him go like he’d been burned. 

It was so sudden it left Tony reeling. He didn't waste a second, scrambling to safety, nearly tripping over himself, vaguely aware that his leg was screaming at him. Wedging himself up against the far corner of a wall, he could still feel adrenaline shiver through him, but it was distant, lesser. He was free. He was free. Everything was fine.

Long, painfully heavy seconds passed. Tony trembled as his own weight settled on his right leg, aching to plant his feet, to walk away, to ignore the entire unhappy episode. But he couldn't. And he wasn't alone. He wasn't, he could even admit, swallowing hard, sure he wanted to be alone, suddenly aching to turn around, to be among _friends_ instead of enemies. 

Slowly, almost unsurely, Rogers reappeared in his line of sight, expression—soft. Hair still a mess of gray chalk, lines apparent around his eyes, he looked harried in a way he hadn’t looked on the helicarrier, all pressed and proper, hands folded at his belt. He looked tired, too, uncertain, like he’d stepped on a landmine. 

He shuffled once, leaning his weight from foot-to-foot, the gesture so simply boyish it made Tony think, _I'm older than you_. It reassured him, in an odd way. Ninety years on ice didn't make him an immortal, someone he couldn't hope to stand up to. Rogers would back off. He would. He wasn't a monster; he was _human_.

“Stark?” Rogers said, voice quieter, less snap-to-it and more _you there?_ When Tony blinked, he pressed cautiously: “Tony?”

Rogers took another step closer. Tony didn't budge an inch, but he didn't run, either, and that was something. Looking him over once, Tony let his gaze rest pointedly on his bare chest, judging him openly, uniform still hanging partially open. It was odd how little he felt for the peak of human perfection—vaguely nauseous, but he felt he could attribute that more to the leg than the peak of human perfection in front of him. 

Swallowing hard, Tony admitted, "I need to sit down." The words were quieter than he intended, barely audible at all, but Rogers was there, sliding an arm around his shoulders, helping him sit. He tensed, but Rogers didn't try to lay him out again, despite the dark red stain Tony could make out against his own leg.

_Huh._

Fancy that.

He was almost numb to Rogers' presence, could almost not have cared what amused him as he took the blood-red shirt Banner passed him, moving out of reach like an anxious shoal in front of a shark. Rogers growled, "Get a medi—" and Bruce finally said, quick and soft:

"On it."

Subsiding into silence, Rogers shuffled so he could press the shirt to the wound, looking at Tony before pressing it against the metal. It still hurt, stung like a son of a gun, but the whole leg was also colder, number—whole world was numb, maybe; that was fine, too, Tony thought, slumping forward a little, planting both bare hands on the floor for balance—and that made it easier to bear. 

"S'okay," Rogers assured, voice a little tight, free hand bracing Tony's back so he wouldn't slump to the side. "S'all right."

Still covered in the chalk of the city that barely belonged to him, Captain America held his own white undershirt against Tony’s bleeding leg until the paramedics arrived—escorted in his _private elevator_ , no less, and there was a time not ninety-six hours ago when he would have squawked about it. He was sure he would have been more embarrassed about it all if he wasn't sitting in a literal pool of his own blood, wondering why he wasn't hurting more. As it was, he didn’t miss Rogers promising, voice tense and tight, “I’ll be there.”

And then, like magic, he was. Sitting in a comically inferior hospital chair for his heroically enhanced stature, Rogers flipped through a _Reader’s Digest_ and looked up suddenly, locking eyes with Tony before he had even committed to signaling that he was present. “Hey, Tony,” he greeted, soft and accent-heavy, like they were old pals, tone level but the slowly seeping tension around his shoulders obvious. 

He was still bare-chested under the jacket, Tony noticed immediately; his collarbones were just visible underneath his chalky uniform. Between the smudged red boots and the chalky blue top, he looked incongruously like a construction worker who'd forgotten his shirt at home and been forced to make due in the middle. It was oddly sweet.

“Hey, 'merica,” Tony rasped in reply, throat dry, leg sore, everything dulled by the cotton fuzz of the hospital. “Am I fired?”

Rogers’ brow furrowed. “What?” He folded the magazine down. “No. Of course not. You’re family.” The answer was blunt, quick, and affirmative, like nothing else had even occurred to Rogers.

It was also so unexpected that it twisted in Tony’s chest, and he could only blink once, and smile ruefully, and repeat disbelievingly, “Family, huh?”

And Steve Rogers just smiled back a little, a brief gesture, but a real one. “That’s what _Avengers_ means, doesn’t it? Family.”


End file.
